


oh babe, i hate to go

by QueenHarleyQuinn



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: (you know when you try to make a clean break and you just can't? That's them), Angst, Break Up, Codependency, Drinking, Goodbyes, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Smoking, Unresolved Romantic Tension, tarantino typical language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21592249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHarleyQuinn/pseuds/QueenHarleyQuinn
Summary: It’s one thing to visit a buddy in the hospital when he took a knife to the hip defending your home. It’s another to camp out in his hospital room when you have a foreigner wife who’s probably scared shitless.It’s a little fucked up and codependent, but it’s also kind of sweet.(Post movie, set in the days after the movie's ending)
Relationships: Cliff Booth & Rick Dalton, Cliff Booth/Rick Dalton, Francesca Capucci/Rick Dalton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	oh babe, i hate to go

“Jesus Christ,” Cliff says, groggily when he wakes up in a hospital bed as morphine drips into his arm. Everything feels dull and distant, like any ache or pain has to seep through a layer of cotton before it can get to him. His paper hospital gown crinkles when he sits up, with his head cocked to the side as he processes the information in front of him.

It’s barely morning. Pale sunlight passes through the slats of the blinds, cutting into the room in horizontal bands. They fall across Rick’s sleeping form, crumpled into two chairs turned makeshift cot – shoulders tucked awkwardly into one corner, leg spilling over the side. 

Cliff’s jaw clenches as he fights back a smile. He looks up at the bland, white ceiling and sighs.

It’s one thing to visit a buddy in the hospital when he took a knife to the hip defending your home. It’s another to camp out in his hospital room when you have a foreigner wife who’s probably scared shitless. 

It’s a little fucked up and codependent, but it’s also kind of sweet. 

Cliff should turn him away – gently, of course. All smiles and thank you’s and  _ don’t you worry about me, pal, this ol’ soldier’s seen a lot worse _ . Their ten year friendship is the closest thing Cliff’s ever had to commitment, no offense to his dead wife. But all that drinking themselves blind last night shouldn’t have been for nothing. All the toasting and drunk grins and laughter, a kind of contagious joy that would have to keep them satisfied if they never saw each other again.

And that was the plan; to never see each other again. Maybe they never  _ said _ it was the plan but Cliff can read between the lines.

He rubs his temple. Here they are, not even twenty-four hours later. Seeing each other again.

Well, Cliff’s seeing Rick snoring softly in the least comfortable position known to man. Cliff’s pretty sure visitors aren’t allowed to do that but maybe they make exceptions for Hollywood actors who kill no good hippie fucks. Cliff chuckles to himself; yeah, there’s a plaque that says as much in the waiting room.  _ Famous guests may stay overnight in exchange for the life of one hippie fuck _ .

“Cliff,” Rick lifts his head, tired. He stretches and the rest of his sentence comes out in a yawn, “The f-fuck are you laughing about?” Then he smooths back his hair and readjusts his sweater, like it’s him Cliff is laughing at.

“Nothin’ man, it’s just this shit they got going through my veins. Better than an acid cigarette though, I’ll tell you what.”

Rick sits up fully and drags one of the chairs closer to Cliff’s side, “How’re y-you feeling?

Cliff shrugs, “Honestly? Don’t feel much of anything right now.”

“Ah, shit, Cliff, I -- I’m real sorry you got caught up in all this,” Rick says, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and taping it hard on his palm, “Goddamn fuckin’ hippie sons of bitches.”

Rick plucks out two cigarettes, offering one to Cliff. Rick lights his before leaning in close to do the same for Cliff. Cliff takes a deep drag; god bless the first smoke of the morning. “Hey, don’t you worry about it, partner. Not for nothing...it was kind of fun.”

Rick laughs on the exhale but his eyes water, betraying him, “Shit, Cliff, you g-got  _ stabbed _ . In my  _ house _ .”

Cliff chuckles and shakes his head, “C’mon, Rick, don’t act like you didn’t have fun  _ torchin’ _ one of ‘em in your pool,” Rick blushes, the shine to his eyes tuning to one of pride, “Yeah, heard about  _ that _ on my little ride to the hospital.”

“Well, you know I don’t keep guns in my h-home.” 

“Who fuckin’ needs ‘em when Rick Dalton gets his hands on a flame thrower!”

And just like that, Rick’s beaming – tapping out the ash of his cigarette excitedly as he recounts his heroics to Cliff. Maybe Cliff should feel a little bad about how easy it was to stroke Rick’s ego, to make the shine of his eyes be one of pride instead of tears. But it was with good intentions – there was no need to have Rick crying in the hospital room over things he couldn’t control. The ego stroking would help soften the thing that Cliff was actually supposed to be doing.

Which was telling Rick to go home to his wife. Yeah. He’d do it any moment now, when Rick was done with his story.

“You sh-should have seen it, pal. Burnt her ass up!” Rick laughs, pausing to take a quick drag, “N-no idea what I would have done if it weren’t for -- for you and Brandy, though.” Oh shit, there he was, getting teary eyed again.

Cliff levels a  _ now you listen to me _ look at him as he speaks around the cigarette, “Sure you do...You’d use the fucking flame thrower.”

Rick laughs, all the tension slipping off him once again and Cliff decides, for the greater good, that he doesn’t need to tell Rick to go home. He’s sure one of the nurses will be here any moment to shoo Rick away and even if they don’t, where’s the harm in a little visit?

Two days later Cliff is released from the hospital, now equipped with a cane because, apparently, he’s going to be a fucking  _ cripple _ for a little while. Hobbling through the waiting room Cliff’s brows knit. He has  _ no _ idea how to get home.

He never finished high school, never got far into arithmetic but – and this very well could be due to the pain pills – Cliff’s got a bit of a word problem cooking up in his mind.  _ If Brandy and Cliff’s car, that he probably shouldn’t drive, are x miles away at Cielo drive and a cab ride there would cost ten dollars then what is the likelihood of untangling his life from Rick’s with any kind of efficiency? _

As fate would have it Cliff didn’t need to try to solve that problem because Rick was already in the waiting room, possibly having been there the whole time, waving a hand in front of his face. Damn those strong ass hospital drugs.

“Jesus, Cliff, you -- you okay?”

“When’d you get here?” Cliff asks.

“Nurse called me this mornin’, buddy. Figured you’d need a ride the fuck out -- out of here so I asked her to call whenever they released you,” Rick starts walking slowly, at Cliff’s side like he’s ushering an elderly woman across the street. Cliff half wants to whack him with the cane for it but Cliff would probably topple over and feel even more decrepit. 

The Cadillac is parked, haphazardly out front which causes Cliff to connect some dots, “Holy shit,” he smiles, a little shit eating, “Rick Dalton, did you drive here?”

“Course I did,” Rick helps him into the passenger seat. Cliff fights the instinct to shuffle over to the driver’s side. His hands already itch for the steering wheel but he ends up opening the glove box instead. There he finds a matchbook and cigarette case. Rick walks around the front and slides into the driver’s seat. 

“Mr.  _ Bounty Law _ himself driving without a valid license. That’s mighty rebellious of you, partner.” Cliff’s statement is punctuated by the sizzle of lighting a match. He lights a cigarette for himself and one for Rick before tossing the spent match out the window.

Rick pulls out of the parking space without checking his blind spots, “Ah, shut the fuck up, it’s not a big deal.” Both of Rick’s hands are occupied on ten and two, so Cliff just slots the cigarette between Rick’s lips for him.

“Well, I’ll just let you explain that to the cops when you crash into a telephone pole. Again.”

Rick shakes his head, “You’re n-never gonna let that go, are you?”

“I had to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to spring ya, so no. Probably not.”

“W-we sure had s-some good ones, didn’t we pal?” Rick asks –  _ genuinely _ asks. Not baiting Cliff for compliments or praise or anything other than the truth. His hand trembles when he pulls his cigarette away from his mouth. His eyes, glassy and sad, dart over to Cliff.

“If you call a drunk driving incident a good one, sure,” Cliff teases, hoping to work either a smile or blush onto Rick’s face. Neither happens and there’s practically a countdown above Rick’s head marking the seconds toward tearful meltdown. “Listen, partner, I wouldn’t trade workin’ with you for anything in the world.”

And it’s not like Cliff’s kept a list of all  _ too honest _ things they’ve ever said to each other, but this has to be up there. Cliff  _ loved _ his job, as much as someone like him could love anything. Stunting started as a way to keep his body from getting that restless, floating away feeling that’s plagued him ever since the war. Need someone to get in a bar fight and take a crack from the breakaway chair? Cliff’ll do it. Jump out of a building? Sure. Set him on fire? Why the hell not, he’s been through worse.

Stunting on  _ Bounty Law _ changed everything. Meeting Rick changed everything. Jumping out of buildings wasn’t the only part of the job he loved anymore.

Rick looks over at Cliff briefly, sad smile on his face but smile nonetheless. There’s a few different moments where Cliff can  _ see _ that Rick wants to say something – in the way he wets his lips and scrunches his brows – but they drive the rest of the way without another word.

“Cliff,” Francesca greets cooly from the kitchen as Rick helps Cliff hobble inside. She eyes the cane and then her husband's hand on Cliff’s arm, there in case he needs more support. It did not go unnoticed that on the counter were Brandy’s remaining cans of dog food, bowl and leash, placed neatly next to the few items Cliff had left on the night of the attack – a jacket and sunglasses. Francesca taps her nails idly next to it.

Born and raised in the south Cliff knows what a polite  _ it’s time for you to leave _ looks like.

“Frannie,” Cliff nods at her as Brandy barrels around the corner to greet her master, “There’s my girl. Rick’s been feeding ya table scraps with your dinner no doubt.”

Brandy’s tail thumps against the carpet in response as Cliff stoops down to pet her, gritting his teeth from the bolts of pain going through his hip.

“It’s those eyes, Cl-Cliff. Can’t say no to ‘em.”

Cliff smirks, “I know exactly what you mean,” He straightens up and makes his way to the counter to grab the leash, “Well, thank you both for keeping an eye on her but we best be heading out now.”

“So soon?” Francesca asks, not sounding sad about it in the least.

Cliff attaches the leash to Brandy’s collar and smiles up at Francesca, “M’fraid so.”

Rick watches with wide eyes as Cliff gathers his belongings under his arm, “Already? You don’t wanna stay for a drink or anything?”

“I’d hate to impose,” Cliff grins and shakes his head.

Rick grabs the items out of Cliff’s hands as he argues, “Cliff, you saved our fuckin’ lives. Goddamn, I’d give you the keys to the place if you didn’t already have a set.”

“You have a set of keys to our house?” Francesca asks, only slightly panicked.

Cliff doesn't even acknowledge her question as he continues talking to Rick, “No I oughta get out of your hair.”

“Fuck, Cliff, don’t make me insist. We’ll have a drink to old times, except without any f-fucking, dirty ass hippies ruining it. Francesca can even make you a bloody if y-you want?”

“A what?”

“It’s a d-drink, honey. A Bloody Mary. There’s a cocktail book in the bar, it ain’t hard.”

Cliff can’t help but smile and give in, “Alright. One drink.”

Cliff figures, at this point, it’s easier to gage how many drinks he’s had by how often he and Rick burst into stupid, wild laughter at old memories of being on set, partying too hard and getting into trouble.

Empty glasses and cans of beer grew between them on the ground as they sat on the deck chairs in the backyard. Francesca had banished them from the house, claiming to have a headache from them being so loud.

He should feel guilty, he knows that. No matter how good of friends you are with someone there are certain things that you have to respect. Marriage, for instance. Francesca may not be Cliff’s cup of tea exactly but she was Rick’s wife now. If she made Rick happy that was all that mattered, and Cliff should do the honorable thing and back out of Rick’s life, once and for all.

Cliff sits up with every intention to do it – a clean break this time. That’s what they needed. A simple goodbye.

“Cliff?” Rick says, voice impossibly small and quiet and catching Cliff off guard.

“Yeah, buddy?”

Rick doesn’t say anything for a while, to the point where Cliff figures he must have drunkenly forgot he spoke at all. A slight breeze kicks up, cooling the alcohol based flush on his face and neck.

If Cliff does it now, with the rustling leaves and setting sun and tension between them, it’s going to feel too...what, real? He’s going to have to look Rick in the eyes, those shining, thoughtful eyes, and end ten years worth of having each other’s back. Between the booze and the pain pills and, terrifyingly, his own feelings, Cliff will say something entirely unlike himself. Too soft and intimate for best friends. 

But then Rick turns, his whole body facing Cliff as he sits on the edge of the chair leaning into Cliff’s space. And the expression on Rick’s face tells Cliff that he hadn’t forgotten what he wanted to say but that he didn’t know how to say it.

“Don’t go.”

It’s a whisper. A plea.

Cliff swallows and looks up at the purple shifting sky, as if the one star twinkling up there is going to offer some kind of response for him.

Rick’s hands find Cliff’s wrists, tugging him down to earth again and Cliff pulls away, swift and jarring. Tears start spilling from Rick’s eyes, hurt from the rejection and Cliff’s heart  _ breaks _ in a way it’s  _ never _ done before. “Ah, shit, Rick,” Cliff sighs and reaches to wipe away the falling tears, “It’s not personal. It’s just...it’s time.”

“I--I don’t kn-know how to -- to live this life without you,” Rick sniffles and any resolve he was clinging to crumbles into messy sobs.

Cliff looks over his shoulder, hoping desperately that Francesca’s not peering out from the kitchen window. Lurking. Stalking them like prey. The light on in the bedroom indicates that she’s there, unaware of the absolute shitshow in her backyard.

“You managed pretty good for the first thirty or so years that we didn’t know each other,” Cliff says, continuing to stroke the tears away from Rick’s face. “You got this nice house, great neighbors, a beautiful woman in your bed-”

“I want  _ you _ , Cliff.”

Cliff clamps a hand over Rick’s mouth before he can say anything more. “No, you don’t. You want to get in with Roman Polanski and show off your gorgeous  _ wife _ to him. You want her and Sharon Tate to get on like a house fire because that would mean it would be down right  _ rude _ for them not to offer a role to you. You want to be an  _ actor _ Rick. That’s what you fucking want.”

Rick frees himself from Cliff’s grip, eyes still wet but face turned hard as stone. He stands and walks away, breathing in deep huffs as Cliff watches him. Finally, without throwing another look his way, Rick says, “Leave the key under the mat when you go.”

Cliff doesn’t need to be told twice.

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Leaving on a Jet Plane by Peter, Paul and Mary
> 
> Heavily inspired by some of wildglitterwolf's recent work, namely the 'Booze Don't Need No Buddy' AU - mostly in the way that after reading it I really wanted to write some more 'breakup/they never get together/they're terrible at feelings' type work.
> 
> Toying with making this into a multichapter fic but this first part can definitely be read as a standalone.


End file.
